of wearing Carnival masks,
with their bizarre faces, large tongues, and swollen chins.
And tears, lots of them, hidden, like a scared rabbit looking at a flashlight.
"Save his life, save it, please", begs the woman escorted by her broken soul. Crystallized wet orbits.
"I don´t know what to do, i´m just a man wearing blue", expresses the heart on his knees, "I´ll do my best, we all will", reinforces my masculine voice the emptiness of the air.
It tries to sound convincing. To sound real. Just a bit of hope.
And then, after leaving the room, an empty room, even empty with two damaged, harmed, injured, and the rest of synonyms (I wish I could find some antonyms at this time), walking bodies, just then, I start packing the rest of my memorabilia:
A bottle in the edge,
a suicide with reasons,
a floating carcass,
and the perpetual echo. The one not described in the books, the one without the capacity of extinguishment, or reflection, in the walls.
The one trapped in your mind like a caged winter.
And the cold, always the cold.
It´s cold out there, but you can´t imagine how freezing it is inside, and how quickly it feeds the sickness.
Strange days.
Bad days.
